


A Pink String of Fate

by acronyx



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, F/F, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-08-04 12:29:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16346744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acronyx/pseuds/acronyx
Summary: In a world where everyone is marked with the name of their soulmate Trixie struggles to reconcile herself to the fact that the woman she's fallen in love with is supposedly not the one she's meant to spend her life with.





	A Pink String of Fate

**Author's Note:**

> This story is written from Trixie's POV

Your body is not your own.

It never has been.

Your hair falls past your shoulders, a blonde cascade of ringlets that frame your face in a golden imitation of a waterfall. It rests on your chest, over your heart that pumps a steady stream of blood down to your fingers and your toes, up to your brain.

Your waist is larger than the ones you’re shown on TV but you’ve learned to love it as you love your rounded hips and your thick thighs.

Yet none of it truly belongs to you.

Because there’s a name on the inside of your thigh and ever since before you can remember you have known that the name is yours. Yet, likewise, you are the name’s.

And the person who has the name will be yours as well; is already yours in many ways, though you have yet to meet her.

You remember the far off look your mother got in her eyes when she spoke of her name and you know the name wasn’t your father’s and wasn’t your stepfather’s. She never got the same look in her eyes when she spoke of them.

They had been blissfully happy, she and the name, but he had died.

She only spoke of him once and you heard her crying for hours afterwards so you vowed to stifle your curiosity and not mention it again, yet you clung to the words she had offered.

The name is your destiny.

The name is the string tugging at your heart.

The name is the reason you sometimes feel lonely.

The name is the reason you sometimes feel empty.

Because you haven’t found her yet.

But you will and so the name is hope.

It’s everything that will be.

All the beautiful moments your life will have to offer.

You are taught to tie all your dreams to that name.

Taught to know that your life will only truly begin when you hear the person the name is tied to introduce themselves for the very first time; the person holding the string that is tied to your heart.

It’s in all the fairy tales and you’re taught to believe that your life is a fairy tale too. You’ll see once you find her.

It’s something to look forward to.

In fact, it’s everything to look forward to because you have been taught that until you meet her you’re waiting to meet her. That nothing is real until you do. The name is the end goal; the finish line; the happily ever after.

You are told that you will feel as though you never knew rosy before you saw her cheeks.

You’re taught to believe that the colour of her eyes will change your life.

You are told that your name spoken by her will sound brand new.

You are not truly living until you’re living life with her.

-

As a child you are grateful for the placement of the name.

You like to climb trees and run and jump and though it results in bruises and scrapes and even a broken arm the name remains unscathed.

Your knees and your palms may have scrapes, your calves may be bruised and your elbows sore but the name is unharmed.

And it’s everything.

As a teenager, discovering your body, you’re even more grateful for the placement.

There’s a thrill that comes from stroking your finger over the name, ever so lightly, that nothing compares to. It’s electric and your whole body tingles and one day it won’t be your finger. One day it will be her tongue.

And it’s everything.

As an adult you despise it.

Not only the placement, but the name itself.

You want to carve it out of your thigh; bleed it out; rid yourself of this disgrace that weighs you down every single day.

You swear you can feel it burn when your thighs rub together on a sunny day, all sweaty and hot and you hate it.

The name is the string tugging at your heart.

The name is the reason you sometimes feel lonely.

The name is the reason you sometimes feel empty.

Because the name isn’t hers. And she’s everything.

When she holds your thighs apart you want to scream at her not to touch it because she is sacred and the name will taint her; mar her; eat her from the inside out.

You lie in her arms and you cry because you’ve never been so happy in your life and you know it won’t last.

You cry because she has a name too.

Her name is under her left collarbone, over her heart, and she doesn’t flinch when you touch it but you can tell that she’d rather you didn’t so you try not to. Because her name isn’t yours.

You try not to think about it but it’s there.

It’s there every day you put on trousers though you’d rather wear a dress and every day she wears a top that covers her collarbones.

Because the truth is that this could end at any moment.

And you don’t know whether you’ll be the one who gets her happily ever after or if you’ll be the one left heartbroken.

Because one of you will be.

It’s inevitable.

The first time she tells you she loves you, you cry. You have always been taught that those words were reserved for the name but you give them to her anyway because it’s obvious that they were always meant to be hers.

Maybe there was a mix-up in the creation of you.

Someone wrote the wrong name and now you’re caught in this horrible limbo of loving someone who should be your destiny but that your body tells you is not the one.

You try not to think about it and when you do it’s with dread.

But the thoughts are insistent and sometimes they just won’t be ignored. They come to you at night when you lie entwined and perfectly moulded to each other. It would obvious to anyone that she was made to fit into your arms.

You know you’re not the only one who has these thoughts. She never could hide a single thing she was feeling and so you always know when they are there.

One night when her head rests on your chest you can feel her stroking the space under your left collar bone, the exact place her own body is marred with the name, and though you always know when the thoughts are there neither one of you has ever voiced them and so you don’t expect the next words out of her mouth.

“What would you do if your name was mine?” she whispers, as if it’s poetry, as if it’s a beautiful secret between the two of you. As if it isn’t sacrilege.

It’s dark and it’s warm in her arms. Before she spoke you had been comfortable.

You wonder whether she means for you to answer and you remain unsure until she repeats the question.

“If your body was marked to be mine,” she whispers and her breathing is heavy, “what would it change?”

You swallow and it feels like you’re swallowing sand.

You wish she hadn’t spoken. You would have been happy to go on pretending. To let this stay an open secret; one you’re both in on but dare not speak of. It’s been your one unspoken rule but, then again, Katya has always been of the belief that rules exist for her to break them.

“I would never leave you,” you answer and your breath hitches pathetically.

“You’re going to leave me?” she asks is if it’s nothing and a pitiful sob comes from somewhere in your chest but your eyes are dry for the moment.

“If you don’t leave me first.”

There are fingers on your hip, dancing across your stomach and you wish this was forever.

“I will never leave you,” she vows but you both know it’s a promise she can’t keep because life is unfair and she won’t have a choice.

You don’t say so because it would be pointless. Some things don’t need to be spoken. Some things don’t need to be heard.

“I love you,” you say instead but it means so much more. It means “don’t do this,” it means “I wish I never met you because you’re destined to break my heart,” it means “I want you to break my heart because I don’t think I could live with myself if I were to break yours,” it means “I’m so happy that we get to have this” and it means “I’m so sad it will end.” It means everything and ultimately it means nothing because you both know that it’s temporary.

—

She asks you to move in and stupidly you agree.

You know that this love of yours is terminally ill but you can’t help but spend every day that you get with it wrapped in her arms.

If this is temporary then all you can do is enjoy it while it lasts.

Her eyelids are the shade of the sunset only infinitely more beautiful.

You would happily go deaf if you could look at her every day for the rest of your life; happily go blind if it meant you would never be without her laughter.

You promise yourself you’ll remember every graze of her fingertips against yours but eventually you lose count and they start to blend. Still, every instance she touches you is a moment you’re grateful for and the name must be a lie because there can’t be someone out there who could ever make you want to give this up.

So you stay up nights and when you sleep, you sleep entwined and it’s beautiful and it’s everything and nothing could ever be more than this.

She gets you coffee in a takeaway cup and there is always a red lipstick mark from her taking the first sip and there’s always a slight grimace because you take your coffee too sweet for her but you’re grateful for the kiss because her lips are on yours for a moment even after you part. And you’re grateful for the grimace because she looks beautiful with her nose scrunched up.

When you’re not together you talk on the phone and when you can’t do that you text and it doesn’t get dull because she’s endlessly thrilling and you could spend your life trying to unravel her and still not know it all. But you know you won’t get to.

You know that this story will be cut short before it ends and that the happily ever after will be found in another book.

You know it but you don’t believe it.

It’s like knowing that the universe is infinite.

Your brain can’t fathom endlessness and neither can it conjure up a world in which you don’t want to know every detail of Katya’s day.

So you don’t dwell on it.

You let days pass and you let touches blend together, stupidly forgetting to cherish each moment because although you know this will end it is a far off inevitability.

Until it isn’t.

Until it’s suddenly upon you.

You know that it’s happened the moment you see her.

You know reality caught up with you.

And your heart breaks.

And you cry as you kiss her and she cries as she lets you but her heart isn’t in it and your chest feels empty.

So you keep on crying because it’s all you know how to do and she holds you through it but it’s almost as though she’s forgotten how to because she’s already put down your book and picked up a new one and it hurts like you didn’t know anything could hurt in this world and you feel empty and and full to the brim at the same time and it’s the worst pain you have ever felt.

And she cries with you and she cries for you and you cry because you never would have thrown your cup of coffee away this morning if you’d known it would be the last one she would ever kiss.

And you heave until your stomach is as empty as your chest and she holds your hair back and she won’t stop apologising though you both know that it isn’t her fault and you always knew that this day would come.

You fall asleep in her arms when you’ve tired yourself out from crying but it doesn’t feel the same way it always did and there are no fingers that dance across your stomach.

You wake up in the morning and the bed is empty.

And you are empty.

She greets you in the kitchen and you want to cry but you’re all cried out.

She’s wearing a shirt that covers her collarbones but you know that it’s just for your benefit now.

Still, you appreciate it.

“I love you,” she says with a sad little smile but it means so much more. It means “I wish that was enough,” it means “I never wanted to break your heart,” it means “I’m sorry,” it means “I’m so happy that we got to have this” and it means “I’m so sad it has ended.” It means everything and ultimately it means nothing because you always knew that this was temporary.

—

She moves out the next day because one of you was always going to have to but the apartment feels so empty without her that you can’t move from the couch.

She offers to visit but you know that it will only drag out the hurt so you decline.

She says she hopes you can be friends one day but you both know it’s doubtful.

You don’t change the sheets for days after she leaves and you know that you’re wallowing and you know that it’s pathetic but you can’t imagine sleeping in a bed that doesn’t smell like her.

You allow yourself four full days of self-pity but on Monday you get up and you go to work.

You drink your coffee and you try not to think about the lack of a red lipstick mark meeting the pink one your own lips leave behind.

Eventually this will become routine.

It won’t hurt forever.

You know this and you cling to it but it’s nothing.

It’s a promise of food in a far off future when you’ve been starving for days.

The truth is that hurt always feels infinite when you’re in it. Any thought of it ever taking end is abstract and unrealistic.

So you soldier on because it is all you can do but you can’t help but wonder whether giving up would really be so bad.

You eat, you drink, you work, you sleep. You get by.

Eventually you have to change the sheets, when you start to feel more disgusting than pathetic.

Pathetic you can deal with.

Which is why you forgive yourself for crying the first time you lie on the bed and it doesn’t smell of faint traces of cigarette smoke and her perfume and _her_.

She left her shampoo in the bathroom and one day you use it but it doesn’t even smell like her when the smell is on you and, anyway, you only feel it for a short while after your hair dries.

This isn’t living.

It’s barely existing.

You buy a pack of cigarettes and you light one but you can’t make yourself take a drag because you know a pink lipstick mark on the filter just wouldn’t look right.

You watch the sunset and imagine her eyelids.

What’s the point of sight if not to see her? What’s the point of hearing when she’s not there to laugh at your jokes anymore?

You mourn every graze of her fingertips that you forgot to catalogue. Is there any part of your body she hasn’t touched? If there is you don’t want to know it. You want to believe that every neurone, every cell, every atom of your being has been touched by her and is better for it.

In vain you try to refrain from thinking about the fact that there is someone out there enjoying her touches. Someone who will get to enjoy them for the rest of her life.

Someone who isn’t you.

She is faceless right now and you’re grateful you never had to see her.

Still, you hate her.

You know her name and that’s enough to keep you up at nights, twisting and turning.

As your sleep cycle gets more distorted, your coffee gets even sweeter and you can’t help but imagine the way her face would screw up in distaste. You try wearing red lipstick just to leave a mark on your own coffee cup and it’s the most pitiful thing you have ever done and it was all in vain because of course it isn’t the same.

You only try it once and it leaves a red mark on the back of your hand from you wiping away the failed experiment.

Your phone goes hours without ringing and when you do get a text it’s not from her.

You are missing the details of her day and as the days pass the details pile up to become more than that.

Every day there is more you don’t know, more things that have happened to her that you’re not privy to.

And you are painfully aware of the fact that with time you won’t know her at all.

Eventually she will become a stranger to you.

Someone you once knew.

You spend time with your mother but she always disapproved and it’s never hurt more to see it in her eyes that she feels you have yourself to blame.

It’s never hurt more to agree with her.

-

As days become weeks and weeks become month you start to realise that when people say time heals all wounds it isn’t exactly true.

Sure, the blood clots and the wound scabs over but the pain doesn’t disappear. It becomes this low-level pain but because it is constant you can usually ignore it. The wound only really hurts when it’s poked or picked at.

When you walk past someone who smokes her brand and for a second you can’t help but search for her eyes in the crowd.

When you wake up in the middle of the night and reach for a hand you already know you won’t find.

-

When her name flashes up on the screen of your phone you don’t know how to react.

You never deleted the contact because what would be the point?

Her ringtone is still that Russian song she set it as and it’s been so many months since you heard it.

The pain is as fresh as it’s ever been and you don’t know what to do.

Does she expect you to answer?

You suppose people don’t regularly call other people hoping to be ignored so she must.

You can’t identify the fluttering in your stomach as you reach for the phone and bring it up to your ear, answering it.

“Hello” you say and it comes out weak and it sounds like a question but you’re too unsure that this is all real to berate yourself for it.

There’s silence on the other line and Katya is never at a loss for words so there is fear clawing at your throat, looking to escape. You attempt to swallow it down and just as you’re about to ask her what is going on, she speaks.

“I-“ Katya breaks off but she doesn’t sound majorly injured, just unsure of what to say. That’s not necessarily better. “I met her,” she says and there is uncertainty in her tone, as if she isn’t sure whether she’s doing the right thing by calling.

Your throat feels no less restricted. If anything it’s getting worse.

“I met your name,” she explains as if there was any possibility you wouldn’t understand.

You don’t reply but you can feel your heart speeding up and your breaths are too shallow.

She laughs and you’d thought you knew all her laughs but this is a new one. Shy but sincere.

“I met her, Trixie, and I know it’s not my place but she want to meet you tonight.”

The hand that isn’t holding the phone has somehow made it to your face where it is covering your mouth. Your shoulders are shaking and your cheeks are wet but you have yet to make a sound.

“I’ll text you the address, okay?” and it doesn’t matter that she can’t see you, you’re sure she knows you’re nodding anyway.

“It’s some place I’ve never been.”

Such a small gesture but you’re infinitely grateful. You don’t want to be reminded of what was with Katya when exploring what could be with the name.

You choke down a sob and draw a ragged breath before you muster up the strength to tell her “thank you.”

You know it’s not possible but you can hear her smile and the next words out of her mouth are enough to knock the breath right back out of you.

“Her eyelids are the colour of freshly bloomed roses,” there is silence for a few seconds. It’s the first description you have ever gotten of her and it’s beautiful.

You don’t know how to respond; how to voice your gratitude but you know you don’t need to. There is no one that knows you better than she does. It doesn’t matter that it’s been months. It doesn’t matter that there is now someone who knows her in a way you never will. She’s still the only one who knows you like this.

Maybe that’s all about to change.

“Pink always was your favourite colour.”


End file.
